


new tales from old leder

by badAquatic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (which is why the noncon tag is there fyi), Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Drunk Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Non-Consensual, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Self Fucking, Sex Toys, Sex for Favors, Size Kink, Xeno, which is weirdly not a tag yet?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would happen if the original generation of trolls landed in Leder instead of New Jack City?  Sex is what would happen. A lot of it. All the time even.</p><p>Yes, this is basically an alternate universe of Trailerstuck, which is already an alternate universe but you can read this and not know a thing about TS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fahrenheit 451

**Author's Note:**

  * For [macabrecabra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabrecabra/gifts).



> This was a gift for my moirail, for it was she who introduced me to Homestuck.

_“You little shit!”_

Kankri’s already taken off though. He’s out the door and clamoring down the cement stairs. You frantically search for a source of not-fresh water and find it in a pot sitting in the loungeblock, full of rain water from last night. You cough and dump it into the garbage can, dousing the flames. You look inside the garbage can. Centuries of literature from the Old World and its done for. All thanks to your descendant.

You won’t catch him taking the stairs so you go to the western window. Kankri’s out of the alleyway between the tenements and cutting through the vacant lot. He’ll cross it and find sanctuary in the opposing building with the Maryams.

No. Not this fucking time.

Your apartment’s not too high up so you chance it and jump out the window. You time it so you land in front of Kankri, blocking his exit. No one knew what to do with the vacant lot. The soil was too poor for growing so it was abandoned. There were some picnic tables and in the grass there’s evidence of late night partying: weed cigarillo stubs and abandoned nip bottles.

Kankri backs away from you. “Sire,” he says, “I-I’ll remind you that what I did was for a purpose. A higher purpose. Social justice has its pains but its all worth for the greater—”

You hit him in the face before he can finish. “Shut up.”

Kankri falls on the ground. He touches the bruise on his face, stunned. “You hit me.” He clenches his teeth, “You _hit_ me! This is worst, most triggering thing you can do, _Sufferer_!”  

You get on top of him, pinning him to the ground and digging your knees into the mud. Your hands grip his throat and Kankri squirms. You can tolerate being stuck on a foreign planet with no way to return home. You can tolerate being housed in this urban hovel and having those apes lord over you. You can tolerate having to live with your fucking offspring with no lusus to mind them. But one thing you can’t tolerate is… _him._ Everything about him; from his faulty causes and his godsdamned _hypocrisy._

“I destroyed your books for a reason.” He doesn’t sound sorry.

You apply the littlest of pressure. Kankri whines and digs his pathetic excuse for claws into your arms. “I should cull you.” you say.

“If you do that, the apes’ll cull you.” Kankri coughs, struggling to talk.

“Not if I hide the body.” That shuts him up because he knows there’s open sewers everywhere. Plenty of trolls who disappear that way.

Kankri whimpers and is still trying to get away. You want to cull him. You should cull him. Just wipe away this mistake and never discuss it again.

There’s something about his eyes though and you realize he’s not whimpering in fear. There’s something else. Something in his eyes. You shift your height and you feel it. Kankri’s bulge awakening and moving under you.

You relax your grip slightly. “The _fuck_ is wrong with you?” You genuinely want to know.

“What do you think?” Kankri scoffs, “You destroy something of mine. I destroy yours. We’ve been doing this since I pupated. You know what this is.”

You have. You get an immense joy of burning Kankri’s social justice papers. The last statement…puzzles you. “What are do you mean?”

“You’re a stupid old man.” He looks you straight in the eye, “I hate you.”

Oddly enough, you’re not surprised when he says this. After all, the writing’s been on the wall for a while now. You don’t respond. Instead, you stand and hold onto Kankri by his long sweater. He gives protests of “Sufferer!” and “Ancestor, what are you—” which you ignore. You shove him against the picnic table face-first and tug at his pants. The cheap material easily rips.

“What are you doing?” Kankri hisses, “We’re in public!”

Which means you’re in full view of the surrounding hives. Dolorosa could be looking down at you as you speak. Some neighbor could be scandalized by the sight of your public indecency. You don’t give a fuck. You squeeze his glute, making sure to dig your claws in so it pricks him. He whimpers and jerks away from you but with your grip, he can’t get away

“This is triggering. D-definitely not safe for public viewing. Exhibitionism…there could be children watching.” But he’s panting. He’s more aroused than you are.

“The children in this shithole have seen worse.” You bite his throat and Kankri moans. You want to hear him, not have him hide behind his usual coquettishness. You tease him; gently raking your claws down his shapely glute, rubbing against him. Your bulge is frustrated is rubbing against the inside of your underwear, frustrated at feeling the heat so close and yet unable to get to it.

“Please. Please stop…” Kankri pants, “I can’t take it…”

“I’ll take as much time as I fucking please.” 

“This is so…so triggering. We could be triggering anyone who looks out their window.”

“You want that.”

“I don’t.”

You palm Kankri’s bulge, still trapped in his panties. They’re loose grey boxers; hand-me-down offerings from the apes. They’re moist from his pre-cum. You find the base of his bulge and squeeze it; enough to ache, enough to let him know you’re in charge. If he cries out, you’ll know its too much and you’ll let go. This is caliginous, not abuse, and Kankri’s always been delicate as a dandelion. But Kankri doesn’t yelp. Doesn’t yowl and beg for help (as if it would come in Brewer Basin). He leans against it, arches his back so his glute is practically in the air.

You whisper into his ear. “Slut. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Please.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Your bulge inside me.”

“You know I can’t do that.” For a lot of reasons you can’t; because you don’t have protection. Because this may or may not be a fling to take your mind off the usual miseries.

“But I _want_ it.” Kankri whines, claws gripping the picnic table he’s leaning on.  

“Can’t have it. Don’t be a brat.” You slide off the boxers so you can get at the bulge. Your thumb strokes the main vein in his bulge and warm fluid dribbles out. You move your thumb to his mouth, tracing the digit on his bottom lip. “Lick it.” you command.

He does as you order. His mouth is wet and warm, just like his nook is, you bet. “Turn around and spread it.”

He does so. Kankri’s face is plastered with sweat and you don’t know if it’s the mid-summer heat or he’s on his heat cycle. You get an eyeful of Kankri’s nook. The area surrounding it is dusky red but the inner folds are brighter. Crimson like poppies. He’s wet enough to glisten but you want him dripping. Kankri can’t do that alone though so you help. You apply your tongue to his innermost folds, delicately lapping at the warmth. Kankri’s reaction tells you he’s never had anyone there. He almost closes his legs so you have to keep them open with your hands. You move your tongue in deeper. Kankri whines when you remove your mouth from his nook.

“Why won’t you put it in?” he whimpers, sounding like a pouty kit.

“You know I can’t do that.” You say, rubbing the ribbed base of his bulge. Aroused, the bulge is more pliable. You easily bend the tip to the outside of his nook.

“What are you doing?” asks Kankri, looking entranced at what you were doing.

“Something I learned a while back.” Back when you had empty quadrants and a relentless heat cycle. You push the bulge into him and Kankri’s breath hitches. The bulge willingly goes all the way in and he quivers. 

Pre-Crash, self-pailing was highly illegal. Punishable by brutal culling. Post-Crash you watch Kankri enact one of the greater taboos in full view of whoever may be looking into the vacant lot.

You’re breathing heavy before you know it.

When he cums, genetic fluids run down his inner thighs in rubicund streams. What you can’t lap up you apply to his waste chute. Kankri’s bulge is still writhing inside him and Kankri? He’s an over-stimulated mess who still wants you. Badly. You oblige him and slide your bulge inside of his now-slippery chute.  

You lick the bruise on his throat. The mark of your possession. Kankri digs his claws into your shoulder, making his own marks. When it comes to pailing, the wastechute is an ignored orifice, so why not exploit it now? There’s no drone knocking on your door. Fuck, you don’t even have actual pails. Its just you and your descendant having a pitch session in the vacant lot.

There’s a murmur from the other side of the lot. You look up from Kankri’s face to see apes have entered the area. They’re tourists, in shirts and sunglasses. Illegal trespassers, as only the government apes are allowed here, but you guess money always greases the right palms. The tourists are shocked by your display; muttering about how barbarity. Crudeness. Shameless.

Like you give a fuck.

You give them the Vantas Double Salute and pump into Kankri faster. Kankri’s body spasms, seizes up in the second climax. You climax and give him a dose of your own genetic materials in his waste chute. It thrills you to hear the disgust of the slum tourists (who grumble and grouse but aren’t moving any faster). Eventually, they scamper away. Maybe this’ll teach them a thing or two about coming into your territory.

“They saw us…” Kankri says but from his tone, you can tell he doesn’t really care.

“Why’d you do it?” you ask, coming down from the high of caliginous arousal. “Why’d you burn my books, you little shit?”

He’s silent for a minute.

“There’s no way back home. Why focus on the past? You read those books and then look like you want to hang yourself. Like the others who couldn’t cope. I wasn’t going to let you do that. Father.”

You hate it when he calls you father. You hate the ape concept of Fatherhood. You’re his sire and nothing more. You kiss him, hatefully, and help him stand. He drips red all the way back to your section of the communal hivestem. You bathe in the ablution trap and say little for the rest of the evening. The anger’s evaporated, replaced by an enjoyable calm.  


	2. blue devil

You always flinch at the sound: bone hitting bone. Splintering. Cracking. The smell of blood on the cement floor. The bell rings and the referee declares your father victor. The Summoner looks proud but he’s not in good shape. While the onlookers are grumblings or celebrating their bets, you have to play medic to your father back in your apartment.

Its not good. The Summoner’s bruised (or cracked) a rib and the swelling on his eye isn’t going down. All you can do is give him aspirin from the monthly rations. When you tell him this, he’s all smiles. “Guess the Marquise isn’t going to see me anytime soon.”

That’s the least of your concerns. Its only Wednesday and he has another fight on Saturday and he’s not looking up to another pummeling. He may be one of the toughest trolls in Brewer Basin but he isn’t invulnerable. He can’t even move from the couch with how banged up he is. You tell Tavros to watch your father for the night because you’re stepping out.

You need to talk to Darkleer.

You cross the vacant lot to Darkleer’s tenement. At night, your neighborhood is dark and only Darkleer’s office—at the top of the eastern building—is lit. Your sires are OG, original generation. They don’t need light in the darkness like the native trolls and neither do you. Electricity is scattershot anyways. Darkleer’s showing off. _Look how much money I got, you poor fuckers_ is what you think he is saying. _I was able to bribe an electrician to rig me up something nice._

Or maybe he blackmailed him. The thought of talking to the blueblood makes you weak in the knees. The natives call him Mr. Darkleer or Mr. Zahhak to his face, but behind his back he’s the Blue Devil. The one who has the dirt on everyone, from their ancestors to their grand-descendant. The one you ask for favors and pay a sizable price.

Now you need a favor from him.  

At the door of Darkleer’s office, he has guards. Big native coldbloods who eye you suspiciously but tell you to wait as Mr. Darkleer is seeing a guest. A minute later, the Psionic leaves the office. The Psionic, Darkleer’s partner in crime along with the Orphaner. After he leaves, the guards let you into the office.

The office is filled with rusting file cabinets and there’s a metal desk in front of Darkleer. Darkleer always wears hand-me-down suits cobbled from the donated clothes. He’s smart enough not to appear _too_ rich. That’d make the government spies a little _too_ suspicious. Still, he loves his jewelry. You recognize the gem on the rings: sapphire, tourmaline, tiger’s eye, topaz...who had been holding on to such things? Had they been stolen for his appeasement? Just who in the hell did he think he was?

“Rufioh. Darling boy.” His voice is silken and he waves you over to the seat in front of his desk. Like you’re old friends. “What brings you here.”

“I—” you begin.

“Wait.” Darkleer opens his desk and pulls out a bottle of wine and two glasses. It looks expensive. Who paid him off with that? “Care for a drink? A… _customer_ …brought me this port.”

You’ve never drunk wine before. Brewer Basin is all about disgusting beer. Refusing might sour his mood, so you accept it. Upon tasting it, you find the wine dry and unpleasant. You sip more just to be polite but soon your head is swimming. The glass isn’t even a quarter empty.

Darkleer’s amused by your lightweight nature. “Too strong?”

“A little.” You choke. “I want you to call off Saturday’s match.”

“Saturday?” Darkleer swirls his wine, focused on the glass so you can’t see the irritation on his face. “Saturday is the most popular day. We even get rich uptowners.”  

“Its too much.” You insist, “He didn’t throw the match like you wanted so you had that man beat him with a chain.”

Darkleer pretends to be offended. “Rufioh! To suggest that I would cheat in my own games. Honestly. It’s the fault of the referee for not giving your father’s opponent a proper pat down. Not I.”  

“He has a broken rib!” You say, not budging, “Cancel the match.” Darkleer glares at you and you add, “Please.”

“Oh, Rufioh. Sometimes you are such…a _wriggler_.” Darkleer puts down the glass, folds his fingers, and looks at you. He speaks with the voice of an ever-patient teacher. “I’d love to give your father the break he deserves. Honestly, I would, but there’s other things to be considered here! Since the Crash, Brewer Basin is isolationist zone. We get ration drop-offs every two months if we’re lucky, but the electricity? Fresh food? Medicine? Sopor? It all costs money, pet.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or not, but the way he calls you _pet_ makes you blush.

“We can’t get jobs because of the curfew and who would hire us? The apes are scared of us OG. The _native trolls_ are scared of us. We’d be sick and starving if your father didn’t attract so much money. Saturday is the day of betting, yes, but we also sell our clothes and other wares to the guests. So”—he leans forward—“unless you have another business venture in mind, the Saturday fight will go on as scheduled.”

“He won’t survive it.”

Darkleer raises an eyebrow. “You think your father is made of toothpicks and paste?”

You grasp at straws, “We could sell what we grow in the garden or…”

“The gardens are for us, Rufioh, or we’d die of malnourishment from those unhealthy rations.” Darkleer leans back in the chair with a sigh. “So you’ll do anything for your sire?” You nod. “Come here then.”

You’re unsteady on your feet but you wobbly over to Darkleer. He touches your stomach and you jolt from the cold temperature. His hand slides down to your bulge. Your vascular pump starts pounding and you twitch, wanting to get away.

“Oh calm down. I know you’re not a virgin.” Darkleer smirks, “Rufioh, the walls in these buildings are paper thin.”

That doesn’t take away your embarrassment as he strokes your bulge through the cloth. His claws are polished and stroke your bulge, then moving to your nook. The chill of his fingers strokes your nook and you whimper loudly. Nervously, you look at the door and Darkleer chuckles. “Calm down. They’re not going to care whatever goes on behind here.” You’re not so sure about that but the blueblood asks, “Have you ever had pictures taken of you?”

“Pictures?” You shake your head, “No.”

“The native trolls here are a small, sickly bunch compared to us. Must be the generations of malnourishment and depression.” Darkleer smiles, “As such there’s a demand for erotica of healthy, handsome trolls. You were conceived on the ship before the Crash, so you should be…perfectly fine.”

Your cheeks feel hot. “Erotica? For who?”

“Desperate trolls. Perverted apes. Whoever else is going to pay.” Darkleer’s hands are at your glute, but he’s not groping. He’s feeling but for what? Texture? Firmness? “Strip.”

You stare, like a deer in the headlights, and Darkleer sighs. “I can’t estimate your photo value with your clothes on.” The blueblood stands and pats you on the head, “Don’t be so afraid. Just repeat to yourself ‘I’m doing this for my father’.”

You hate the way he puts its but you are desperate. You shuck off your pants and shirt easily and put them on the desk. You stand in front of him, nervous and nude, with hands on your sides. Darkleer smiles and gently strokes the bulge.  

“Don’t look so afraid. If you want to get top dollar for your photos, you have to learn to be comfortable. We’ll practice.” Darkleer smiles, “Put your clothes back on. This isn’t the environment for a shoot.”

You don’t like the sounds of that but dress yourself.

 

From Darkleer’s office, you go to another apartment. The air is thick with incense and fetishes from troll horn and teeth hang on the wall. It’s the rustblood apartment. You’ve only been inside the spooky apartment once. You’re taken to a back room with a spacious bed and clean sheets. There’s cameras and reflector panels. The Handmaid is at the panel, talking to Darkleer.

Darkleer nods to her and looks at you. “Now strip and get on the bed.”

You take off your clothes and don’t make eye contact with the Handmaid. You  can’t understand anything she says anyways. Darkleer is behind you as you climb on the bed. When you’re on the bed, Darkleer has his hands on your glute. “Have you ever had a toy in here?”

“Not that I can remember.” You mutter.

“Now’s a good time to learn.” Something slick and warm prods at your wastechute. Reflexively, you clench your teeth and brace yourself like someone sensing an incoming car crash. Darkleer tut-tuts and the toy moves away, replaced by his fingers at the rim of your wastechute. “Calm down. It doesn’t hurt.”

You’re not sure you believe him. A finger sinks inside your wastechute, working past the tight ring of muscle. You moan into the pillow under you, biting the silk. Over your moans, you hear the _click_ of the camera shutter. Darkleer adds a second finger and scissors them. You whine and the Handmaid says something. Darkleer laughs and the fingers move away. You feel the tip of the toy but this time it slides in. Its still a strain because you’ve never had anything in there.

Darkleer pats you on the glute. “See? Not so bad. Now sit up.”

You sit up and feel something hanging from your glute now. You reach behind and feel a silken tail hanging from the toy inside you. Darkleer grins and instructs you to show off your new ‘accessory’. Touch your nook. Stroke your bulge. Pay no attention to the camera, dear. It loves you anyways. You don’t know how many pictures you’ve taken when Darkleer tells you to suck his bulge. At first you’re hesitant since you’ve never sucked anyone’s bulge, especially a blueblood’s.

He offers you wine and it’s a sweet and makes you feel considerably more courageous. One and a half cups of alcoholic sweetness in, you pounce on Darkleer’s bulge. The genetic fluids are cold, like licking and wriggling icicle. Your breath is hot on him and Darkleer’s charcoal skin is flushed blue. The Handmaid clucks her tongue and you see out of the corner of your eye, she has a remote. A vibrating sensation comes from your wastechute. You yelp, hips shaking from the feeling.   

The Handmaid laughs and you look at her, “What…what are you _doing_?”

The Handmaid responds, eyebrows waggling, and Darkleer translates, panting, “She says raising the stakes would make things more interesting. I couldn’t agree more.”  

“Stop…stop i-its…uncomfortable…” you whine.

Darkleer smirks and strokes your bulge. “If you’re a good little bull…maybe I’ll consider it.”

“It…just fuck me…” A whimper interrupts your train of thought. You can barely think with the toy quivering inside you.

Darkleer grabs you by the hair and pushes you toward his bulge. “Finish your job first.”

Your lips are already coated with his blue genetic fluids. You don’t protest as you take the bulge into your mouth. It is difficult because you’re unused to his size. Darkleer’s patient with you though and gives you instructions. _Relax your throat. Just stay calm. Yes, Rufioh. You’re doing so well._ Ten minutes in, you’re calm enough to deep throat. His cold genetic fluids pour down your throat and the remainder dripping down your chest. You pull off his bulge. Your mouth is salty, sweet, and sticky from his fluids. They’re tart like unripe fruit. Did Horuss’s fluids taste the same? You can’t remember now.

Darkleer cleans up your mouth and chest with a towel. “A bit messy but you’ll learn better.”

He must know the alcohol is making you sluggish now because you get cuffed to the bed. The toy is still inside of you; still vibrating and making you shiver. Darkleer mounts you and his bulge slides inside your nook with little difficulty.

“I don’t even need lube. You’re already wet.” Darkleer thrusts and instincts take over. You move with him, breathing shallowly at the intrusion. You’re glad you’re not a virgin because he’s bigger than Horuss and Damara. The older blueblood  whispers in your ear, “Do you like this? Being dominated by someone much bigger than you?”

You wouldn’t tell him the truth even if he was paying you. You think your body is answering for him, especially your craven moans. Darkleer isn’t discouraged by your silence and continues. That’s when you feel his bulge rub against that sensitive knot inside your eggsack. You can’t take it anymore and you cum too early. At first you’re ashamed because your bulge is wilting and the room is spinning. Darkleer is still thrusting and cold sweat drops onto your back. Darkness looms at the corners of your vision but Darkleer tugs on your hair again, pulling you back to alertness.

“Not yet.” he orders, “Not just yet.”

Darkleer moves in you faster and you whimper and pant until finally ou feel the onslaught of cold genetic fluids in your nook and eggsack. The glacial liquid sends you into darkness’s embrace.

When you dream, its of the open skies over this rotten hellhole of Brewer Basin. Why hadn’t your father flown away years ago, during the Crash?

Why hadn’t you?

You’d be lonely of course, and that must be father’s reason.

Your dreamself lacks that fear and flies up high above Brewer Basin until you can see the entire square mile of decaying misery. You raise up higher and swerve to avoid the rusting remains of Battleship Condescension. In its twilight years, most of the red paint had flaked off and sides battered from past military assaults. And yet it floated. And yet it remained. Unyielding to time and command.

You remember the Crash though you had just pupated. It was the day of screaming sirens, quick silence, and then long-lasting darkness. The day when the electronic schoolfeeding flashing critical red before the screen went black and the robolusii shut down for good. The adults suppressing their panic, fearful of suffocation and starvation in the comatose spaceship. After weeks of deliberation, they cut open a hole in the hull and descended into the smoggy city.  

Pre-Crash, the Condesce had disappeared into the bowels of the ship, never be seen again.

What caused the Crash? No one knew.

Where had the Condesce gone? The hell if you knew.

Did she have descendants wandering this planet? No one had a clue.  

You ascend further, moving into the clouds. Into the stratosphere, or maybe that’s what its called. There was no point in getting the ‘public schooling’ in Brewer Basin. You feel dizzy. Are you losing oxygen? Is your dreamself dying? Someone calls your name and there’s the ghost of cold hands on your back.

You go back down. Back down to the decaying tenements. Back to the scented backroom. Back to your body, glossy with sweat and genetic fluids. Your eyes snap open and Darkleer has your head in his lap. The Handmaid sits next to you on the bed, wiping you down with another towel, saying something to Darkleer.

Darkleer pets your head. “You’re going to make a wonderful pet. Keep this up and your father will never have to fight again.”

“So the match is cancelled?” your voice is hoarse.

“Yes.” Darkleer strokes your hair. “Good pets get their rewards.”

You feel satisfied when he calls you ‘pet’ and even purr a little.


End file.
